There’s just so much it’s going to take me a very long time to write it all down, such as the odd sensation that something vulgar was happening to me and I loved it. I don’t know if there’s any way to describe this experience but I want to try as hard as I can to get there.
I know the history of these worlds of words will be proven irrelevant to everyone but those who wish to slip in to this seventy six hour idea. This whimsy lacks the fear of overdose, skin cancer, STDs, working the next week, fucking your brain with fire like a bunny on Christmas.
You can just imagine dealing with the societal rejection of attempting to shave half your head with a lightning bolt, stealing a golf cart, participating in a 20 person cuddle puddle, torching poi, and gliding on a naked slip and slide in 24 hours.
Now imagine questioning the normality of it.
“If there is an echo let it be that it reappears as the worlds reminder of yourself"
I have lost all boundary, to poor screen filler on my head and cover it up with photographs of a British performance artist and fake roses cultivating personalized cults was self aware in retrospect.
The heroin hobbies fought in my brain for a position of superman horseback riding.
“There is no hostile for emotionally refined.”
I have gone beyond a collection of asinine stories whose subtlety denies dilating intensity.
I have unraveled from a magnificent melding of the externalized thickets of our personalities.
It was is and will be on a roof top with no house to define its exposition of welcoming isolation.
A state of fire burns the fuse of life, watches hearts flicker in violent, beautiful, sparingly bold patterns defying everything we can‘t remember.
Follow the elevator shaft up to this seventy six hour idea, watch it dangle from chains and rope into my arms for this Tim Burton walk off.
Now there is a mirror awash with cracks, the rainbow tinted magnifiers,
these glasses of toxins envisioning my enamored relationship
With this seventy six hour idea.
Then there was no analogy.
“Our brain’s can’t comprehend the stars, infinity, so they’re like ‘fuck it, it’s pinholes in paper!’
The saddest goodbye scarred across my back in a variety of map patterns.
To a buried treasure lies within that seventy six hour dried lake bed of fire.